Wake Me Up Before You Go
by Anti-canon
Summary: While Ezekiel's at work healing Sam, he accidentally crosses some wires and starts turning him on. Repeatedly... And then eventually on purpose.


**A/N: I wish I could say that I was ashamed of this, but I'm really not sorry. :P Was it embarrassing to write? Yes. But it was for a good cause! Sweet, sweet porn.**

**Anyways! This checks off my first bingo square on the kink card kaleidomusings made for me, so you can blame everything on her. ^^**

* * *

It starts simply, just a pleasant heat humming behind his tired eyes.

Sam honestly hadn't noticed it, hadn't had the leisure to focus on the parts of his body going right amongst the sea of _wrong. _That's what it was, just a kind of sickness that festered and spread along his bones. Ever since the trials, he'd felt a degradation weighing him down. These wounds weren't like cuts or bruises or broken bones. He felt _sick, _dank, consumed.

And recently he'd been losing time. Not anything alarming yet, but sometimes he'd close his eyes, for just a second, just to drive back the throbbing headaches, and he'd wake up a half hour later. It was almost always the ceiling to his room or the dash of the Impala that he'd come back to, but he felt like that wasn't natural, was it? Not that there was anything natural about his life or his condition, but… It felt like something he should be worried about.

Only thing was, Sam never did. Whenever he first snapped awake, when he'd realize that he wasn't quite where he was a second ago, he'd jump—alert, but nothing else. There was the recognition that the world was slightly off, but there was a kind of numbness that came with it, spreading slow like molasses from the tops of his shoulders all the way down. It was probably the product of a jaded outlook on life, on the inability to surprise him anymore, but it wasn't… bitter.

It felt almost like someone rubbing at his shoulders, running a hand through his hair, and reminding him to breathe. He'd slump into the feeling, let the tension drop and roll his head until his neck cracked. Sam was hesitant to say it, but it almost felt—good. For a moment, the tightness in his chest would loosen and the dull ache inside would melt beneath that warm wave.

* * *

It only escalated from there. Sam still felt like shit more often than not, still wanted to lie on a hot water bottle with a few fingers of scotch and a big ass bottle of aspirin, but there were these little sensations that he started living for, that he craved at the height of his fevers and chills. After knocking him out, after those missing minutes, his body almost seemed to want to apologize, soothing his fears and asking for his commitment, strength.

The numbness still came, but afterwards, he'd stretch his legs—from thigh all the way down to his splayed toes—and that contented burn would be turned up to eleven, making him whine lowly and shake. His ears would pop and that crick in his jaw would click back into place, his eyes and lips warm and cottony. His stomach started to swoop, as if falling from up high, and instead of making him sick, it made his heart race instead of trudge and his muscles strain against their tired loll.

These things felt foreign—almost magical in the moment. Sam had been so sick, for so long, it was hard to remember just what it was like to run on all cylinders. These feelings were never anything spectacular or fantastical, just simple pleasures that meant so much more once he'd been so long without them. He felt relieved, well-rested, at ease. Honestly, it felt almost like the morning after.

Even though it brought a guilty flush to his face, it always (reluctantly) brought Sam back to those minutes when you first wake up after good, care-free fuck. Loose limbed, sated, sore, warm, pleased, wanting to curl up in the musky sheets and ignore the sun coming through the blinds. As odd as it was, Sam had to admit that recently, he'd even been feeling his dick twitch in his jeans, his ass clench and his balls draw. He'd open his eyes, be in a new place, and bite his lip as tranquil pleasure radiated through his limbs.

When he was alone, he'd even taken to letting himself moan a little, maybe grind his hips or pinch a nipple, just to release that pressure. It was just a way to let that roll out of his system, complete the circuit. He tried to hold it in around Dean, but sometimes his breath would hitch, or his legs would jerk, or even once he'd gone suddenly painfully hard. He'd stuttered for an answer, trying not to look in Dean's eyes while adjusting himself so at least there wasn't an obscene tent pole in his crotch. Dean had just muttered, "The less I know, the better." and steadfastly pretended like that hadn't happened.

Luckily, being as close together as they had, for as long as they had, especially through puberty, meant this hadn't been the first time anything like this had happened, and they were both well-versed in how to diffuse the situation. Sam had seen Dean's naked ass too many times to count and vice versa, engaged in worse activities than a little wet dreaming—an ill-timed bulge wasn't going to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

* * *

It had never come to anything, besides maybe one or two cold showers and Sam's first nocturnal emission since he was fourteen, but nothing that would be considered out of the ordinary, at least not for them. For a month Sam just wrote it off as bad case of blue balls, of being sick in a sense, semi-delirious, and really, stupidly horny.

Sam was pretty good with dry spells, he'd never really had that constant itch like Dean did. No, for him, it came on suddenly as an intense hunger, every so often—rare but not undocumented—and he'd feel this consuming need for intimacy, for a fuck, as intensely as though he'd lost a limb. And here lately whenever he'd black out, immediately after he'd want to _rut _against the bed, against his hand, against another person—his dick wet and his mouth dry and his eyes rolling back into his head.

There wasn't a numbness anymore, but a heat that threatened to burn him out if he didn't tend to the flames. It finally got to the point (two erotic moans and one inappropriate crotch grab while on the road later) that Dean formally excused himself from the bunker—face red and voice hoarse as he gave Sam the order to "take care of yourself" while he went for a beer. It was quite possibly the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him, and both John and Dean had walked in on him losing his virginity, so.

He'd been determined to make sure the embarrassment on both their parts wasn't for nothing, and turned the lights low, stripped down, even laid a towel on the bed. But as he sat there, disinterestedly playing with himself for close to an hour, the lust didn't come. He'd tried everything that usually got him going—raking his nails up his thighs, twisting a nipple, pressing a cool finger against his dry hole, but he couldn't get it up.

He wasn't having one of those thrilling, gripping, heated moments. Right now he felt like death warmed over, and being naked, tugging at his flaccid dick like a taffy pull, really wasn't helping things. He gave it an hour, a full hour of his best college effort, and when didn't feel so much as a tingle, he put his boxers back on, through the towel in the bathroom, and went to bed.

* * *

Having had a glimpse at normalcy had almost made the whole ordeal worse. Being sick literally every second of every day had been hell, sure, but it was familiar and consistent and Sam knew how to deal with it, how to shore himself up and keep moving on. These moments of lucidity though, the long minutes of warm desire and simple pleasure made it seem like there was a light at the end of the tunnel… one that kept getting further and further away the longer you ran at it.

Sam had tried, unsuccessfully, to masturbate twice since that evening and all he ever got in return was a sore wrist and an empty feeling low in his gut. The bright moments seemed too short, even as they got longer and longer, and it never was enough anymore. All that lightness just to come crashing down harder and bleaker each time—he was getting to the point where he just wished he was tired and aching again. It was too painful to be content.

They were on a case in Illinois, had finished it up neatly and with an unusually happy ending, and were staying the night before driving back in the morning. Dean had conked out early after a few too many beers and half of a soft-core skin flick while Sam was in the shower. He'd meant to try something himself—see if the warm water and fuzzy feelings were enough to get his engine revving, but the idea of failing again had been too much. Instead he'd just stood beneath the shower head, braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he was sitting on the edge of his bed, towel wrapped too loose around his waist, hair dripping and goose bumps peppering his arms and chest. Sam took one look at Dean's scrunched, snoring frame—panic flaring for the smallest of seconds—before that wave crashed over him, his toes digging into the carpet, his knees crashing together, his stomach fluttering and his head throwing back, but when he opened his mouth to let go of it, the groan choked up in his throat and nothing came out.

The pleasure died down to a tingling before bursting forward again, emanating from just below his ribs, and no matter how much he wanted to cry out, his mouth clamped shut, teeth grinding against each other. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and Sam found himself brushing the towel aside, sighing internally as his erection sprang free, the cool air making him shiver in contrast to the damp warmth sticking in the vee of his legs.

Concerned at his inability to make a sound, but unable to focus on anything besides his slow building orgasm for too long, he pushed himself back against the headboard, planting his feet on the mattress as he spread his legs wide. Lost to the heady yearning, Sam pressed his lips together tightly and tried to ignore Dean's restless movements as he ran steady hands along his sides, thumbs brushing against his nipples, fingers pressing long and hard into every crease and groove.

The muscles in his inner thighs quivered and he tried to groan, but all he could manage was to crack his head against the wall while he tugged at his balls. Amongst the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his temples and the wetness trickling down his shaft, Sam could swear he heard a voice, deep and ancient—like Cas' but… not. "Careful now. Easy… quiet." It threw him for a moment, thinking of his brother's angel, but a gentle pressure, like a touch lit against his pulse and that tingling burn ran a line from his hip down between his clenched cheeks.

His throat vibrated against a silent cry as Sam arched his back, muscles tightening oh so sweetly before letting go. Sweat had started to break against his skin and Sam circled his hips against the phantom touch pushing against his opening. He took himself in hand, fingers slipping against the slickness for a moment before he got hold of the loose skin and started to work it in harsh, jerking motions. He watched as his swollen cockhead disappeared in and out of its hood while his stomach rolled and his nipples tightened.

The hair on his taint stood on end as an electric buzz slipped from the crease of his hips down to that sensitive skin and Sam fought against the ersatz gag that kept him quiet. "Woah there, Sam. Easy, easy. Let me take care of you." The voice was real this time, he was sure of it, felt it ghost across his navel. It wasn't Cas, but it was familiar like that, old like that, knowing like that. Sam wanted to be afraid of it, but he wasn't. Not because of the numbness, but because of the reverence he heard there, of the promise that was thread between the lines.

This was someone—something—trying to make him alright. And he felt—well he felt—his throat constricted and his back seized when he felt pressure inside of him, splitting him open and bearing down on that little node. Sam's hands fisted in the sheets, his toes splayed, his heart skipped a beat, and his dick throbbed so hard it brought tears to his eyes. Dean snuffled nearby and turned in his sleep, but Sam hardly noticed, precum drizzling down into the cleft of his ass as he thrust at the air, cock harder than it's ever been.

Unable to take another second longer of this, he pressed his hands to his chest, and dragged them down, down, down. The pressure was too hard and he felt like it took everything in him to move, but Sam got his palms around his erection, and fisted it as fast as he could, pulling himself free of his foreskin to press fingers against his leaking slit. It didn't matter now, that he couldn't scream, the obscene squelching sounds reverberating around the room as he furiously stripped his dick were anything but subtle.

If Dean didn't sleep like an elephant, this just might just take the cake as the most depraved thing he's ever seen, and that's saying something. Sam could feel his release building at the base of his cock, stronger and stronger, but he held back as long as he could, hips rising into the air as he fucked wildly into his fists. He heard the voice, just once more, pressed against his temple. "Let it go Sam."

He came so hard, stars burst behind his eyelids, mouth opened to a silent scream, cum splattering across his nose, and tongue, sticking in his hair and knuckles, pooling in his navel and the hollow below his throat. He thrust weakly—once, twice, three times more and then let his hands fall away, taking in the debauched mess. He knew he should get up and clean himself, imagined he looked something like the end result of bukkake porn, but he could feel his eyes sliding closed and he blacked out, content.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes to Dean eating bacon and eggs out of a Styrofoam container, transfixed by the infomercial playing on the TV. He didn't even bother pretending to panic, just looked down at himself and saw that he was tucked in, fresh out of the shower, a pair of white briefs snug around his waist. A dull happiness spread through his center and for once, Sam felt like he was getting better.

He closed his eyes, turned away from the blinds, and curled into the still musky sheets—stomach tingling, toes curling, dick stirring. For just a little while longer, Sam went back to sleep.


End file.
